


Constant

by blehgah



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2296628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there's one thing that's been constant in your life, it's him. Post season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constant

You’ve never been one to put your foot down. Even as everything around you changes, it’s never been in you to muster up your anger, your frustration, your distress into action. You’re a follower, after all, and if you were to let one word slip out of line you’d never forgive yourself.

But him— no, he’s never been about rules. You don’t think you’ll ever understand him. But god, if there is one constant in your life, it’s him. He never leaves you second guessing. And while it pains you to admit it, you’re starting to think you know him like the back of your hand.

There’s one thing you’ll always appreciate about his presence, however. Even if he’s annoying, lazy, self-centered, and generally all-around useless, he’s— he’s always  _there_. You never feel alone, knowing that he’s just there around the corner, whittling away at this month’s provisions.

And you’re no stranger to walls, either. Every night you check on yours, just to make sure they’re still strong. You’d lower them at the drop of a hat for your captain - though that really isn’t the issue at hand here, you see - but for  _him_ , it’s become something of a dance. Have you clashed so much he’s done actual damage to your defenses under the radar? Or have you been letting him in, brick by brick?

Well, you’ve never been much of a protester. You suppose he sort of just let himself in in hopes of finding some way to mooch off you.

And if you’re entirely honest, you wouldn’t mind that much, either.

* * *

It’s never felt like he’s taken advantage of you. You  _like_  to take orders, even if they’re unreasonable, even if they’re stupid, even if they’re from him. Of course, he doesn’t need to  _know_  that. But the banter’s natural, keeps you on your guard.

Sometimes you find it a little strange, though. The way your guard will sometimes slip and little bits of honesty just fall out of your mouth, completely unprecedented, rough and entirely unacceptable. It’s not like you to let your form falter. But he doesn’t even blink. He takes it in stride and never bothers to acknowledge it.

That definitely bothered you the first few times. But now? It’s just his way of keeping up your little dance.

You think that should do for the time being.

* * *

The night after you recover the epsilon unit, the air is thick, denser than usual. Sarge is up in his own quarters - away from him and his slob radius - leaving you alone with him.

While the two of you never really take off your suits, he removes his helmet and stares at the floor, at a loss. As a common courtesy, you remove yours, too.

After a moment of silence: “Hey, Simmons?”

"Y… Yeah?"

His eyes flicker towards you. “You ever… wonder why we’re here?”

You roll your eyes. “Grif, I’m really not in the mood for that tonight.”

Again, you feel his gaze travel towards you. This time, it stays. There’s something in the way that his brow furrows, some sort of determination that sends a prickle down your spine. You’ve never had quite so much energy from him aimed your way and you’re not sure what to do about it.

"No, I mean—" His voice falters, and so he attempts to compensate with vague hand gestures, "Shitty running gags aside, have you ever honestly, genuinely wondered… why the fuck are we here? We don’t actually  _do_  anything here. I mean, I make a point not to. The most you do on a good day is kiss Sarge’s ass until your lips bleed. There’s no point to us being here.”

A handful of snarky remarks fly to the front of your head, but the fact that he’s talking to you face to face like this is already a clear enough indication that yes, he’s asking you seriously despite the tone he takes with you. It’s not an unfamiliar tone, but it stings nonetheless.

"I thought this past mission was enough evidence to show you why we’re here," you respond. Sarge’s speech from earlier still rings loud and clear in your ears when you recall the memory without any effort at all.

The kink in his forehead still hasn’t dissipated. “So I’m here to risk my life all the time, is that what you’re saying?”

You open and close your mouth a few times. “Yeah, I guess. It’s what you signed up for, isn’t it? The whole army gig?” Before he can get a chance to retort, you shift a little so that you’re facing him squarely. “Why are you asking me this all of a sudden? We’re here, we’re fine, we’re alive— isn’t that enough?”

 _Isn’t this what you wanted?_  you’re dying to ask, the question pushing at your lips, teeth, tongue. He could have stayed behind. He didn’t  _have_  to come out here with your team, this isn’t really what he signed up for, but he came anyway. You assume it was because he had been of the same mindset as the rest of your makeshift team - that despite all the crazy bullshit that was happening, you couldn’t leave without some sort of closure. You had to see it through to the end. You had to make sure the mission was completed, or die trying. Without a real mission, without a true objective from your forsaken authorities, there hadn’t been much else left to do.

He screws his eyes shut, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one gloved hand. After a moment, he lowers his hand, stares at it, wiggles his fingers a little.

"It’s just—" his eyes remain on his hand, refusing to meet yours, "It’s all… Becoming a little personal, don’t you think? Is that really what I signed up for?"

"Well, it’s what you’re getting. If you don’t like it, you can leave."

Because what they signed up for  _doesn’t exist_. It never existed in the first place. In all honesty, yes, there isn’t any reason for them to have stayed. Their involvement with the remnants of project Freelancer hadn’t been mandatory, compulsory, necessary.  There may even be a part of the world back at home that has better use for them than the unknown and hostile parts out here.

"Personal," you repeat, spitting the word out of your mouth to rid yourself of its bitter taste, "Like any of this hadn’t been personal from the start. You still have parts of my body, for god’s sake."

Like you ever let him forget that.

That’s when he looks up at you with those damn mismatched eyes of his. Yeah, even though one of them is, in fact, yours, it manages to remain a part of his stupid fucking persona. That glint of wasted cunning, that immense desire to do nothing, stubborn to the core, defiant for the sake of it.

"Why do I put up with you?" his tone holds genuine wonder. "Why do you put up with me? Why are we here, for fuck’s sake?"

Somehow, some way, you’re getting a dose of him that you never signed up for. And you’ll just fucking deal with it, because you’re the grown up and he’s the idiot who’s somehow figured out that anything can be a question if you add the word “why” to the front of the sentence and a handy little question mark to the end of it.

"You could spend all night wondering the complexities of the world with that tiny brain of yours, or you could, I don’t know, get ready to call it a night, dipshit," you retort with no real malice, "In any case, I don’t think I’m really in the mood to deal with Philosophical Grif."

Despite your words, you make no move to leave. He’s pinned you down, restraining you under his heavy gaze.

"Are you sure?"

His question is like a dare. Childish, yes, but he’s the child, you’re the grown up, and you have way too much pride.

"You can add it to your oh  _so_  long list of accomplishments when we’re done,” he adds, physically inching closer to you now.

"I didn’t really think it was anything more than a rhetorical question," you admit, though your tone remains level, maybe even a bit challenging, "I mean, I put up with your fuck-ups and idiocy because you’re my teammate. It’s what we’re supposed to do. For the life of me, I can’t go back now." A pause. "It’d probably be against  _some_  rule, somehow.”

"And I’m too lazy to attempt any sort of change. Typical." There’s a light to his eyes that raises a red flag in your head, triggers warning signs of danger because there’s something unpredictable about the way he moves. "Why don’t you tell me something new, Simmons."

"I— I don’t have to answer to  _you_.”

"But you will," he presses, taking a step in your direction. There are motion sensors in your suit that highlights this detail, emphasizes the sensation of his movement. "You will, Simmons, because you are so damn typical I could tear both my eyes out and know exactly what your next move is."

"What the hell are you so worked up about, anyways?" you ask. Deflections have always been your game. It’s everyone’s game around these parts. Maybe being in the military does that to a man.

There’s a slight tremor in his jaw as he speaks. “I’m just so sick and tired of sticking my neck out for you goddamn bastards without getting anything in return.”

And there’s a slight punctuation, a slight stress to the way he says “you”, like he’s singling you about in particular. You know that “you”, you can hear your name whispered in the undertones.

"What the fuck," you growl, "Do you want from me? I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You know, Grif, out of everyone here, I’m the one who looks out for you the most! I’m the one who sticks  _my_  neck out, and what the hell do I get from you?”

You’re seething now, prickling, boiling. And that seems to delight him.

You can’t stop now; the floodgates have slammed open. “You’re a fucking lazy asshole who demands everything from everyone, and you’re asking  _me_  what  _you_ get in return? Go fuck yourself! I should be the one asking you for your goddamn life! God knows how often I’ve saved it! I’m the only one who fucking cares about anything around here!”

In the middle of your rant, your hands have come before you, fingers flexing into tense, tense fists. You can hear your suit creak with your efforts. Meanwhile, Grif’s gaze is bright, attentive, intent. Fixated. Delighted, delighted, delighted.

"So what  _do_  you want, Simmons?” And as he asks this, as the words tumble from his lips, sound from the world around you dies, fades, dissolves into nothing. There is nothing but you and him now.

"What do  _I_  want?” Your voice trembles and you hate it. You hate it. “I want— I want—”

"Come on, Simmons, it’s not a hard question."

"I want…"

What  _do_  you want? A million things flood your mind and you can’t focus on just one. Sarge’s approval. Grif’s approval. Your own approval. Some sort of recognition that you’ve done  _something_  right, something worthwhile. That all your efforts have made a difference and  that you’re not there for the sole purpose of making someone else happy. Not that you make anyone around here happy, anyway.

At least you try.

"I… I don’t know," you say, your voice having fallen into a whisper along the way, "I don’t know what I want, Grif."

And with that, he drops his head and starts chuckling. It’s quiet at first, gentle. The sound doesn’t push past a modest laugh as he throws his hands up in defeat.

"You ever wonder why the fuck we’re here," he says, a statement of disbelief rather than a question, "Of course you don’t know. You don’t even know what you want."

The mocking tone that drips from his words is enough to tell you that he  _knows_ what you want and that he only wants to hear it from your own mouth. He knows you, he knows the answer to this question, but he’s only fucking around with you. Why ask if he already knows the answer? To fuck with you, of course.

Your blood is hot and it bubbles with your anger. After one last twitch, one flexing and unflexing of your fingers, you reach out and grab him by the front of his armor. You have a slight height advantage, but he’s heavier than you; neither of these details hinder your actions as you throw him against the wall. A grin stretches his face as you pin him down across the chest with one arm, the other hand planted beside his ear.

"You don’t deserve to know, anyway," you hiss, "What the hell could you do for me?" Your lips pull into a scowl as you imitate his voice, " _Oh that’s nice, Simmons. I didn’t really want to know, anyway. All your hopes and dreams are as stupid as your face_.”

Another laugh escapes his throat. “ _That’s_  what you think I sound like? Good lord.”

"God _dammit_ , Grif!”

Look at yourself; all worked up over some stupid questions. You can’t help yourself, now, though; there’s something liberating about having him here, having him trapped under your grip.

"I don’t need to hear it from your mouth, you know," he states, still so amused. So delighted. "I know what you want."

"So why the fuck did you ask?"

"I was only wondering if you were man enough to admit it." He lifts his chin, an act of superiority. "And I can see now that you’re not."

There’s a part of you that wonders about how much of this is about you and how much of this is about the two of you together.

"Fine." You loosen your hold on him, though you continue to stand firm in his personal space. "Tell  _me_  then, Grif: what do  _you_  want?”

Another wide grin. “Is this your clever come back? You want to know what  _I_ want? I thought you knew. I mean, all I want in life is to get stuff with as little effort as possible, right?”

"I think that answer is a little too  _typical_  for my tastes.”

This time, his smile is a touch more sincere. Maybe even a bit approving. Like you’ve finally stepped up to the plate to play along with this little game of his.

"I don’t really know if there are words at this point to really express it," he says, an airy, dismissive tone to his voice, his tongue playing sweetly with words, "Is it possible for me to just… show you?"

Another dare, another challenge, and now you really do wonder just how much of this is about you and how much of this is about him and how much of this is about the two of you together. You’re not one hundred percent certain about what it is he wants to “show you”, but you can make a pretty damn good guess, but you’re not sure if you can take it. If this is his response to the question “what do you want”, what does yours look like in comparison? How much does he actually know about what it is that you want?

Is this his way of showing approval? Is this his way of showing you that you actually mean something to him?

The body is a physical plane and you know that area so well. You know what it’s like to feel pleasure, to feel pain, you know every vital spot on the body and you know how to use that information to bring an end to life as you know it. Knowledge is key but you wonder how much you truly  _know_.

You suppose you won’t really know until he makes his next move, but are you really ready to know the answer to this god forsaken question?

Because he can show you, he can manifest whatever it is he thinks about you in some physical form and then you’re not sure how you’d take it, because it might mean having what you want and you’ve been so hungry for so long.

"Earth to Simmons." He snaps his fingers.

"Show me," you reply in a single exhale. Weak, much too weak, but he eats it up, grinning.

A few moves are made, a few gestures and flicks of the wrists and fingers, then the armor is coming off. It’s a little too meta, you think, because you can feel some of your inner armor falling to the ground alongside the metal plates that usually weigh upon your shoulders. The sound of metal against the stone cold ground is immense to your ears, echoing echoing echoing, but eventually it’s drowned out by the sound of his breathing.

It’s strange; you’ve seen him naked countless of times, even with pieces of your own goddamned body, but this a brand new context, and therefore a brand new body.

It’s not yours anymore. It’s his, and you’re a part of him, now and for the rest of his life.

Standing in your sleeping quarters surrounded by pieces of orange and maroon armor, you feel so starkly naked. The black body suit has yet to go and you’re trembling, trembling.

The whir and hum of your robotic body parts mingle with the sounds of his breathing. Your breathing is a strange mixture of both human and cyber mechanisms composing a melody. A gloved finger touches the energy core in your chest, filled with wonder and awe.

"I really do wonder how you put up with all of this," he says, quiet and casual, "What kind of self control you must have not to snap and go crazy every single day."

You don’t really have an answer to that because you’re not quite sure yourself.

Instead of replying, you reach for the zipper acting as a barrier between your bodies. How strange it will be to have your own fingers upon your skin, your fingerprints no longer unique as they smudge the alloy of your chest and arm. A million thoughts run through your head, a million ideas and uncertainties pushing your engine into overdrive.

His body is a mess of mismatched parts and you know you don’t look any better.

He nudges you with his bare knees until your legs hit a bed. Your bed, seems; you can see the night stand on the edge of your peripheral vision, the neat arrangement of lamp and alarm clock, the absence of dust.

The world is horizontal and he takes up your entire field of vision. It takes some time for your gaze to focus but when it does, it short circuits your brain for a few moments. His skin is marred with scars and patches of facial hair, body both soft and firm to the touch (it depends on where your fingers land; his middle is more on the softer side). There is hidden strength in his body, sleeping stores of power unused by choice.

The nerve impulses that your robotic side sends are especially sensitive somehow. They’re foreign and the effort it takes to unravel them earns you a much more precise and detailed description of his body relayed by your metal reach. A quiver rolls through his muscles under your slowly warming touch.

His own hands are curious. He sits up, pelvis to pelvis in an unbearably warm press, forcing your body upright by leaning your shoulder-blades against the wall. Mismatched fingers trail down your clavicle, the metal plates that compose your folded stomach, moving to take your hips in a possessive grip. His thumbs rub the bone there, maps the ridges for future reference.

Eventually, he spreads out his palms and covers much more surface area that way, sweeping his touch upwards. His arms are parallel to each other as he comes to wrap his fingers around your throat. It’s a very loose grip, calling your attention to your breathing pattern, a mechanism precisely controlled by the gears in your gut.

"I want…" he begins, voice cracking immediately, "This…" He taps your Adam’s apple and it bobs in response."To never stop. Or I’ll kill you for leaving me out here alone."

You understand his sentiments completely. Of all the things around you, he’s been a constant you can always count on. Something like that is such a precious anchor.

His skin is like patchwork, and it kind of pisses you off. He’s reckless and untrained and unfit and that could kill him one day. It’s clear by the way he treats his body that he doesn’t care, but he damn well should. Your fingers tighten around the softness of his middle and a small scowl pulls at his mouth.

"Hey," he protests, albeit without much conviction.

"You fucking fatass," you mutter from between clenched teeth, "If you die because of this, I swear to god, I’ll kill you for leaving me out here alone."

For a second he looks pissed, too, but his eyes soften, then his forehead, his nose, and finally, his lips.

"I’ll manage somehow. The gods want to keep me alive for some goddamn reason. I mean, just look at me."

That pulls a mirthless laugh from the depths of your lungs. He’s right, though; the scars and patchwork skin are reminders of what he’s survived, indicators of how much he can handle.

Neither of you are anything close to pristine but that doesn’t suppress your urge to mark him. It’ll add another tally to the count, and while this body is already partially yours, you’ll leave a mark of your own volition this time.

Your hands scale the expanse of his back. You pull him down by the base of his neck and bury your face in his shoulder, the one that’s completely his, inhaling his scent. When you open your mouth and press your teeth and tongue to his flesh, you taste everything you’ve avoided in life and you want more.

A small sound drifts out of his mouth. It travels down your throat to rest comfortably in your stomach, triggering your ever-rampant hunger. You’ll have him and there won’t be anything stopping you this time.

After leaving a red, almost purplish mark on the crook of his neck, you pull him back. Your gazes meet, lock, never leave.

"I want you," you tell him.

His mouth twitches, an unspoken question. Will that be enough?

He settles on, “I want you, too.”

Maybe for tonight it’ll suffice. You wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
